


in the chillest land

by The_Kinky_Pet



Series: a fine line [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, past dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet
Summary: Steve wants to help Tony.  Tony needs to help himself.And what he wants from Steve isn't exactly what Steve had in mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Emily Dickinson's "Hope."
> 
> This story probably won't make much sense without the previous stories in the series. (Also, it deals with the issues raised in the previous stories, so do please heed their warnings, as there's past shitty behavior, hate sex, etc. touched on in this series.)
> 
> Kind words and encouragement are always cherished, but if for whatever reason you dislike my writing I ask you hit the back button and keep it to yourself as a kindness to my mental health. Thanks!

Steve had never been good at waiting. That hadn’t changed, no matter the century or his body’s transformations.

He’d written to Tony. At The Facility. 

People--the press, the public--didn’t know where Tony was. The Avengers hadn’t been called out, so they hadn’t noticed Iron Man was gone. “Tony Stark Neither Seen Nor Heard!” wasn’t likely to sell many papers, so there hadn’t been a peep. 

But Steve had asked JARVIS when he couldn’t find Tony in the Tower; apparently Tony (or Ms. Potts) didn’t mind him knowing that Tony was at the Saint Jude Executive Retreat. (Or they’d just forgotten to tell JARVIS not to answer.) 

Steve had looked it up on the Internet. Fancy place. (Of course it was.) Luxury accommodations, perfectly manicured grounds, home theaters, saunas, private jacuzzis, gourmet chef, massage therapists. Even a bass pond. (Steve tried to picture Tony fishing. He failed. It was hard to picture Tony there at all.) 

The website had an address, so he’d written Tony a letter. (Originally, he’d included a calligraphy version of Emily Dickinson’s “Hope,” then changed his mind.) 

It hadn’t been a very good letter. It hadn’t said any of the things that he wanted to say, or even the things he thought he should say. Bland. Awkward. Two days after sending it to upstate New York, he’d regretted it.

In the end it didn’t matter. It had come back to the Tower marked “RETURN TO SENDER.” Unopened. 

Steve wrote another letter. (This one was better. Maybe. Probably.) 

He checked the facility’s address on the website three times. Checked the postal rate for a letter, first class mail. (47 cents! Six months ago he coulda gotten a nice lunch at Saul’s or a medium roast at the grocer’s for that kinda money…)

“RETURN TO SENDER”

Maybe the facility didn’t give mail to the . . . . visitors? (inmates? clients? patients?). 

But it was probably for the best that he’d get a third shot at writing this (goddamn) letter.

Steve tried again:

_ Dear Tony, _

_ I hope that you’re doing well. Jarvis told me where you are. I hope it’s good and they’re treating you well. I hope it’s helping. I looked the place up on The Internet; sure seems swell. When we were away, we all liked to get mail, so I thought maybe you would too. _

_ New York is same as you left it and the team hasn’t been called out. (It says on the website that ‘external contact’ is ‘limited’ so I wasn’t sure if you’ve got The Internet or your phone to know what’s been going on.) Things are quiet. Not a lot to do.  _

_ Anyway, I’ve been thinking of you  _ _ a lot _ _. I’d like us to be  _ friends. I know you said you’re allergic to apologies, but I think I probably owe you another one. For how I behaved the last time I saw you. I’m sorry. And for before. You’re incredibly brave; I was dead wrong when we met and then after. The team is lucky to have you. It’s too quiet around here without you. Hope you’ll be back soon. I hope you’re doing well. If you get bored, write me. With things so quiet, I’ve got lots a time to kill. Now that I’ve almost destroyed all those punching bags and nobody’s here to fix them. Can I send you anything?  _ _

__

_ Hope you’re well. _

__

_ Best Regards, _

__

_ Steve Rogers  _

__

This one (still bad, but the best of the three) came back: “RETURN TO SENDER.”

__

That was enough waiting. 

__

He’d never been very good at it.

__

Steve hopped on his bike the next morning. It was a beautiful ride upstate. He took the backroads instead of the main highway and sometimes he could almost pretend that it was still  _ before _ , just another stop on the tour and nothing had changed. (“each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy's gun!”) 

__

He arrived at the Executive Retreat just before lunch and went to the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist was very pretty in that long, thin way people seemed to like now: creamy skin, carefully styled blonde hair, tasteful, understated make-up, perfect bright white teeth. 

__

“Good morning, sir.”

__

She gave no sign of recognizing him. 

__

“Um. I think my friend is staying here. Tony. Tony Stark?” 

__

“I’m sorry,” she answered without checking the register, “there’s no one here by that name.” 

__

“Could you check? I’m sure he’s--”

__

“Only visitors in the official registry are allowed access to our residents,” she explained with a friendly smile that felt like ice. “Would you like to give me your name and identification and I’ll see if you’re listed as one of our guest’s visitors?”

__

“Uh, sure. Name’s Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

__

He fumbled for his driver’s license. 

__

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers,” she said, turning to the glistening computer. “I’ll check.”

__

Tap. Tap tap.

__

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, handing back his ID. “You’re not on our list.”

__

“My visit is a little spontaneous,” Steve said with a sheepish smile. “Could you ask him to add me?”

__

“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not on the list. Your friend must not be staying here.” 

__

“No, I’m sure he is. Could you just ask--”

__

“I’m sorry, sir. But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

__

Two large men in nice suits and sunglasses appeared from nowhere. To someone else they might have seemed intimidating, but Steve was hard to intimidate.

__

That said, Captain America probably shouldn’t get in a knuckle duster with a rehab facility’s hired goons. 

__

“My mistake,” Steve said. “Have a good day.” 

__

He left. For now. 

__

But he didn’t like it. Something felt  _ off _ here. 

__

What if something was wrong? 

__

What if Tony was in trouble?

__

What if none of this was what it appeared? 

__

The goons were following him outside, trying to be subtle as they watched him get on his bike and ride out of the parking lot.

__

But they were nuts if they thought this would keep him out. 

__

He just needed to regroup. 

__

That evening, Steve returned on foot. They had fences. Security cameras. Guards. Those weird laser beam things from the pictures he’d watched with Clint. 

__

It was nothing. (Just enough of a challenge to be fun, even looking out for foul play.)

__

Twenty minutes later, Steve was on the balcony to Tony’s suite. 

__

Steve peered in through the window, already planning how to bust Tony out.

__

Five minutes later he was leaving ( _ fleeing _ ) the way he’d come. 

__

(Stupid. Stupid. You goddamn fool.)

__

He left before Tony could catch sight of him. He was sure that if he knew Tony’d never forgive him for seeing him like  _ that _ : puking into a bucket with the shakes, sweaty and small. (Vulnerable.)

__

As he dodged cameras and guards, barely thinking about it, Steve felt his guts twist and churn.

__

It had been foolish to come there at all. Ten times more foolish to break in, to think there was something sinister, something off. 

__

(“You just wanted it to be sinister, Stevie.” The voice in his head sounded like Bucky. “A job for Captain America. )

__

If there was something sinister, he could rescue Tony. 

__

But there was no rescuing Tony from this. 

__

Tony had to rescue himself. 

__


	2. Chapter 2

Steve wasn’t sure why he was still thinking about the letter. About getting in touch with Tony. After his disastrous attempt to see him upstate he should have been done. Finished.

He wasn’t. 

“Excuse me, Jarvis?” Steve said addressing the ceiling. “Is anyone in the gym?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes is using the facilities at present, Captain.”

Steve blinked and glanced over at his bed stand where the letter sat.

Steve knew better than to ask Ms. Potts to deliver the letter of course, but Rhodes had always been cordial—even a little star struck when they first met. And perhaps he and Ms. Potts weren’t close. Maybe she hadn’t mentioned Steve’s behavior—or her assumptions; Steve still wasn’t sure what she actually knew. And he couldn’t picture Tony speaking ill of him to Rhodes—or, not telling tales. Generally cussing about him and what a jerk he is? Yes. Telling him about their . . . encounter? No. No, he couldn’t picture that.

Steve hurried for the gym, then realized he should at least work out and changed into his gym clothes.

“Hello, Lieutenant Colonel,” Steve said as he entered the gym.

Rhodes set the barbell back on the rack and turned to look at him.

“Captain Rogers,” he said with a nod. The War Machine armor was standing at attention in the corner.

“How have you been?” Steve asked. 

“Well,” Rhodes said briskly. “And you?”

“Good,” Steve said. Feeling awkward, he started to wrap his hands. “So, uh, have you heard from Tony? How is he?”  
  


“Tony’s good,” Rhodes said, eyes narrowing.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Steve said, trying to show the depth of his sincerity. From the way Rhodes expression tightened it hadn’t worked. Steve finished wrapping his hand and tried to push his nerves at bay. He pressed on: “Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wrote to Tony. Maybe you could give him my letter the next time you visit?”

Rhodes looked at him blankly for a moment, then said in a flat voice, “The United States Postal Service was founded in 1775.” Steve gazed back at him quizzically. (Huh?) “So I know they had the post back in your day. I’m not your errand boy, Rogers.” (Maybe it was in his head, but it seemed like Rhodes put particular emphasis on the word _boy_.)

“No of course not! I didn’t think--” Steve began awkwardly. He grabbed the letter. “I posted this, but the letter came back. I thought maybe they don’t want to give him mail there? So I hoped maybe you could . . . ?” 

Steve held the letter out hopefully. Rhodes snorted. He shook his head.

“You just carry that around with you? When you go to the gym?”

Steve flushed, caught out. 

“No,” he said, voice tight. “Jarvis mentioned that you were here.”

Rhodes took the letter, but handed it back before Steve could thank him. 

“That right there?” he said, pointing with his chin. “It’s Tony’s handwriting. And if Tony doesn’t want to hear from you, why the hell would I help you out?”

Steve swallowed thickly and something on his face must have given him away because Rhodes added, “I don’t know what the hell you’ve done, Cap, but Tony’s my best friend. And I would do anything for that idiot.”

He stared Steve down. It took him a moment to realize the Lieutenant Colonel was waiting for a response. 

Steve stood up a little straighter.

“I understand, sir,” Steve said briskly. 

“Good,” Rhodes answered, a hard edge in his voice. “I think I’m done here.”

Rhodes strode over to the War Machine armour, stepped into its glistening body, and left. 

(Shit.)

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Three weeks passed.

Steve didn’t try to send any more letters.

On a bleak, gray Saturday afternoon, Steve wandered into the communal living room to find Ms. Potts taping a box shut. There was another box beside it.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Steve considered turning around and beating a hasty retreat. He knew perfectly well how Ms. Potts felt about him and--much as he admired her loyalty to Tony--he wasn’t terribly fond of her either. 

But she might have an update about Tony, so Steve steeled himself and spoke, trying to force some warmth into his voice: “Good afternoon, Ms. Potts.”

Her shoulders went stiff at the sound of his voice and she lifted a hand to her face. (Wiping away a tear?)

“Captain Rogers,” she said in that scrupulously polite voice she used with him. She turned around with a pinched smile, makeup immaculate. (Maybe he’d been wrong. Or maybe women like Ms. Potts could cry without mussing their paint.)

“How are you?” Steve asked. 

“Well,” she answered. “And you?”

“Good,” Steve said. It was all terribly awkward. He tried a smile and added, “No alien invasions, so it’s officially a good day.” It wasn’t a very good joke and she didn’t pretend that it was. But it _was_ a good transition to: “And a good thing. We’d really be missing Iron Man if there were an attack.”

Steve could practically feel Ms. Potts guard go back up (or up even more), but Steve pressed on, “I was wondering if there’s any news from Tony.”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” she said briskly. “He’s completed his--” there was a split second pause as she searched for the word-- “--program. He’s returning to Stark Tower on Monday.”

“That’s wonderful!”

Ms. Potts looked visibly startled by Steve’s outburst.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Steve added, smiling--not quite able to keep the words in. Something tight in his chest seemed to loosen at the thought of Tony’s return. “And he’ll have the full support of all the Avengers here. Once he’s back.”

Ms. Potts look turned considering and she said in a subdued tone, “We’ll see.” 

She turned back to the box. 

“Can I help you with that?” Steve asked, hurrying forward.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Steve took an equally hasty step back. 

Ms. Potts pulled the large box into her arms and staggered a bit under the weight; Steve could hear glass clinking inside.

“Are you sure--”

“You can get the other one if you like,” she said and started for the elevator. 

Steve lifted it easily and followed. 

“Garage please, Jarvis,” she asked. 

“Of course, Ms. Potts.”

They were silent in the elevator. Steve wracked his brain for the right questions to ask about Tony, but they all sounded judgmental or prying and by the time he was halfway to something decent they’d arrived. 

Ms Potts walked briskly towards a boxy black Mercedes-Benz, its famous hood ornament glistening silver. Steve’s stomach twisted with loathing. (His mind flashed to flickering news reels and swastikas, the Fuhrer on parade.). Steve took a deep breath; lots of people in America drove them now. Tony had one too.

Ms. Potts propped her box awkwardly against the trunk and fumbled in her bag for the keys. Steve wanted to help--it looked like it might go crashing down, shattering bottles and spilling Tony’s fancy collection at any moment--but he knew she’d resent it. 

He hovered as Ms. Potts got the trunk open. He deposited his box next to hers in the back. She slammed the trunk shut and the sound echoed through the garage.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers,” she said, not trying to smile. She opened the car door.

“No trouble at all,” Steve said. “I’m glad Tony will be back soon,” he added, smile breaking out unbidden. “If there’s anything you think we can do for him . . .”

Ms. Potts examined his face intently. The silence stretched between them. Steve wondered how long they’d just stand there. At last Ms. Potts spoke: “You might try letting Tony be Tony. And leaving him alone.”

Bitterness crept back into her voice. 

“Good day, Captain.” 

She closed her car door and drove away.

>>>>>>>>>>>

“Maybe we should have a party or something,” Steve suggested tentatively. “To welcome Tony home.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Bruce.

“That’s a nice idea,” Bruce said slowly, pouring himself another cup of tea. “But I’m not sure, uh—“

“Parties usually mean alcohol,” Natasha cut in bluntly. “Tony’s an alcoholic.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we set up a bar.” Steve tried not to snap, but the words came out with a bit of an edge.

“Didn’t think you were,” Natasha said, with an unconcerned little shrug. “But the associations are there all the same.”

Steve frowned.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Let him bolt straight to the workshop,” Natasha said. “It’s where he’ll want to be.”

She turned and poured herself another cup of coffee and added, “Act normal. He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”

Steve frowned.

More waiting.

He was so goddamn sick of waiting.

***

Steve had been restless all day, probably because he’d skipped his morning run . It was finally Monday and he hadn’t wanted to be out on his run when Tony got home. In case Tony asked for him. (Which was absurd. He never had--why would he now?)

Finally, he went to the gym. He ran 22 miles and then spent some time slugging the special sandbags--the ones Tony had made for him--and finally felt a bit calmer. 

It was getting late. Maybe Tony wasn’t coming today after all. The afternoon light was just trending into evening, long and lovely, the sky filled with striking, luminously pastel clouds. Needing to get out of the Tower without actually leaving it, Steve headed for the roof deck to enjoy the sky. 

Clint was stretched out on one of the long chairs reading a comic book, bag of chips at his side, and--

“Clint! What are you doing!?”

Clint paused, beer bottle half way to his mouth. He frowned. “Is this a trick question?”

“Tony could be home any minute!” Steve snapped. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Dude, I’m not gonna offer him one!”

“You shouldn’t be drinking out here at all! What if Tony--”

“Yeah, Barton, better look out.”

Steve spun at the sound of Tony’s voice, dark and scathing, right behind him. 

“Don’t you know Stark’s a desperate drunk?” Tony continued. “He might bash your brains in for a sip of--” Tony grimaced, “Bud Light? God, if that’s not rock bottom I don’t know what is.”

They both stared at Tony-- frozen--but Clint recovered fast. He gave an awkward little laugh and said, “Uh…. welcome back?”

“Thanks, Katniss.” Tony turned to Steve, glaring. “What--you turned back into a capsicle?” 

Everything he’d wanted to say, all the gestures he’d imagined making--gone in the face of Tony’s sharp gaze and scathing tone. Steve swallowed thickly, his heart in his throat.

Tony snorted. “Good talk,” he said to Steve, brushing past. He added to Clint, “And although you didn’t actually offer, I’m just gonna help myself to--”

Steve watched in horror as Tony bent and reached for Clint’s six pack.

(He had to do something! I couldn’t just let Tony--)

“--these.”

Tony’d taken a handful of chips.

He’d been reaching for the chips.

(Thank God he hadn’t--)

Tony’s face twisted.

Apparently, everything Steve had been thinking was on clear display.

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Tony said, voice low and vehement. “Go fuck yourself.”

With that he vanished into the tower. 

“So,” Clint said, rubbing his neck. “That went well.”

(Damn.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it! Kind words cherished and adored.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the best birthday present for Steve, but . . . uh . . . here it is! More fic!
> 
> Happy 4th.

Steve knew better than to try the workshop directly, but he was hoping he’d get lucky soon if he stayed near the coffee maker. (It had worked last time. Sort of.)

No luck.

A day passed. Then two. Then three. It was driving Steve crazy.

Natasha had told him to act normal, so he’d tried. He went for his usual run. He went to the gym. He went to bed early. He loitered with a book near the coffee maker. (But surely that wouldn’t be _noticeable_.)

Nothing.

On day four, Steve was reading near the coffee again when he heard voices approaching from the elevator; he tried to focus on his book. (Act normal.)

“But I think that’s the point Tony was making,” Bruce was saying as he came into the kitchen with Natasha.

Steve looked up, trying to seem casual. “Tony?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, “He was making a case for Thompson’s new theory about the Einstein Rosen bridge.”

“Oh?” Steve said, trying to sound casual. “That sounds interesting.” He swallowed. “So, you’ve seen Tony? I thought he might still be holed up in the lab.”

Natasha arched one eyebrow at him; he hated it when she did that.

Bruce’s laugh sounded a trifle nervous as he answered Steve’s question: “Yeah, Tony’s surfaced for air a few times.”

“Well that’s good.”

“Though he’s keeping odd hours,” Bruce added, then shrugged, “But that’s Tony after all.”

Steve nodded.

Natasha gave him a look as she asked, “Don’t you usually train in the gym at 3?”

Steve felt like a naughty schoolboy caught out.

“I was just headed that way.”

He beat a hasty retreat.

****

Once a full week had gone by with no sign of Tony, Steve couldn’t wait any longer. He was sorely tempted to launch a full scale assault on the workshop. But the fact he’d used martial metaphors for the idea suggested it was the wrong approach.

Steve spent another two days agonizing.

In the end, he decided to text.

 **Steve:** Tony. I didn't mean it the way it sounded.

A little check mark appeared to tell him Tony’d read his message. He waited, but no little dots followed to tell him Tony was answering.

 **Steve:** I’m sorry.

Check mark. No dots.  


He waited a few more moments then added.

 **Steve:** I thought about you while you were gone. That’s why I wrote to you. But you didn’t read my letters. It’s ok. They weren’t very good anyway.

Nothing.

Natasha said to wait and let Tony come to him.

Steve was bad at waiting.

And he’d always been the kind of guy to throw himself off a cliff.

 **Steve:** I missed you.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath. Time for the leap of faith.

 **Steve:** I thought about you. We should go out for pizza sometime soon. It could be nice.

He typed out “You’re sober now,” but then deleted it; if Tony had forgotten that conversation—as he likely had, being blackout drunk at the time—it would no doubt sound like an insult. Instead he texted:

 **Steve** : I’d like to see you.

Little dots sprang into life and Steve held his breath. After a few moments, they vanished. Steve waited. And waited.

He didn’t get a text.

He destroyed two punching bags at three a.m. when he couldn’t sleep.

The next day, Steve tried a new approach.

This also felt a little like jumping without a parachute, but in a very different direction.

He just needed Tony to _acknowledge_ him. Something!

 **Steve:** My dad drank. Bad. He never tried to stop. Not like you.  
  
The little check marks appeared almost instantly again and Steve wondered if Tony ever had his phone out of reach.

Little dots lit up his screen and Steve held his breath again. But they vanished quickly once more.

Nothing.

He waited. A long time. (For him.) He went to the gym. He had a shower. He made some tea.

Then Steve tried again.

 **Steve** : Some of the guys who came back from the Great War, like my dad, they drank too much, but they dried themselves out. I saw how hard it was.

 **Steve** : What you’ve done is brave.

Check mark. Never any dots.

It was rapidly becoming clear that Steve needed a new strategy, but he had no idea what to do.

Perhaps Natasha was right: he just had to wait.

Goddamn it.

>>>>>

It was ten days after Tony’s return that Steve finally saw him, on one of the many occasions he’d staked out the coffee maker.

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat and his pulse raced.

(Finally.)

“Good to see you, Tony,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice casual and friendly. He forced a smile. “I was starting to wonder when I might run into you.”

Tony snorted. “As if you could ever run into me in my own Tower.”

Steve gave him a blank look.

Tony’s eyes glittered. “I always knew exactly where you were. Why did you think you hadn’t seen me for so long? Everybody else did.”

Steve felt at once confused and hurt and hated feeling either. “What?”

“I’d just ask JARVIS to keep an eye out. So I could avoid you,” Tony said. He gave a vicious smile. “JARVIS is always watching you for me.”

“So you’ve been spying on me?” Steve’s voice rose abruptly and his heart started racing again.

“Constantly.” Tony’s grin widened.

_(Boxed in. Trapped. Eyes everywhere.)_

Steve clenched his fists and his eyes darted around the room, up to the ceiling as if he could catch JARVIS in the act.

“That’s disgusting,” Steve growled. “How could you do that?”

“Well, it’s my Tower,” Tony said blandly as he poured himself a glass of club soda.

“I live here too,” Steve snapped. “You have no right to do that! Especially without my permission, it’s . . .”

Steve groped helplessly, looking for the right words to express his horror and revulsion, the deep seated sense of _wrongness_ he felt at the idea of being watched. The hair at the back of his neck stood up.

Before Steve could settle on the right word, Tony jumped in, “It’s the same all over anyway.”

Tony gave a manic grin and spread his arms like a carnival salesman: “Welcome to the future, Cap! There’s no place you can go that you won’t be tracked by someone.”

Tony swirled his drink in the tumbler. Steve’s heart was pounding and his body was screaming _fight fight fight_.

Tony was swirling his drink in the tumbler.

Like you would with a glass of scotch.

Steve’s thoughts skittered off in a new direction, but Tony continued undeterred: “You’re always being watched, one way or another. Credit cards, cell phone, GPS, traffic cameras, google maps, all the apps—each of them just pinging your information into a vast network that knows your every move and preference, what you like to buy, and how you tend to think. Welcome to big data, Capsicle!”

Steve took a long and deliberate calming breath, then said in a measured voice: “Well. I don’t use most of those things anyway.”

Tony snorted a little laugh, as if against his will.

“Don’t watch me in the Tower,” Steve said firmly, then added, “Please. I don’t like it.”

“No.”

“Damnit, Tony,” Steve growled. “Can’t you just do as I ask? I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Why not?” Tony stalked closer with a predatory smile. “I like the way we fight.”

“I don’t,” Steve said, backing away. “We’re better than that.”

“No, we’re not.”

Tony threw back his club soda and poured another.

“We are,” Steve insisted. He swallowed. “And I know you read my messages. Why are you acting like you didn’t?”

“You’re right. And I did learn something new.” Tony’s grin was triumphant. “Captain America’s dad was a drunk.” He says it mean, like an attack.

“Yes.” Steve’s voice sounded stiff, so he added blandly: “I’m told we say ‘alcoholic’ now.”

Tony snorted again, his involuntary little laugh.

“That didn’t make it into the film reels,” Tony said.

“Of course not,” Steve replied. “Bad for Captain America's image. Couldn't have a drunk Irish dad could he?” He shook his head. “Besides, people didn’t talk about things like that. Not the way they do now.”

A little of the hostility bled out of Tony’s body and he asked, voice curious, “What was he like?”

“Sad. Angry.” Steve frowned then added, “But never violent. Not angry like that. Just . . . hollowed out. He loved us. But he never tried to stop. The drink. It probably killed him.”

“I always thought he died in the war,” Tony said, looking contemplatively into his glass. “It’s what the official bios said, I think.”

“Yeah. They said that.” Steve sighed. “And in a way he did.”

They stood silently for a moment, then Tony fixed himself a tonic water with a slice of lime. (No gin.) He turned abruptly, eyes narrowed, and opened his mouth—then shut it again with a frown.

Before Tony could find a way to pick another fight, Steve blurted, “We should get pizza.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Again with the pizza.”

Tony gave Steve a hard look and then a smile spread over his face. He came closer and fluttered his eyes coquettishly.

“Why Rogers!” he exclaimed in an affectedly breathy voice, putting his hand over his heart. “Are you trying to take me on a _date_?”

“No! I just—“ The denial sprang past Steve’s lips without thought, but of course, that _was_ basically what he’d meant. What he’d been obsessively envisioning, over and over: soft caresses, dark warm whispers, ‘I owe you a better time . . . I can make you feel,” a thread of unlikely tenderness to tether him to this brave new world.

Steve licked his lips and took a little step back. Tony stalked closer again, pressing his advantage.

Steve swallowed and clarified: “I just want to spend time with you. And . . . and maybe get to know you better.”

“Sweetheart,” Tony drawled. “You just described a date.”

“Fine,” Steve gritted out. “It’s a date. So, are you coming?”

“Why should I?” Tony asked. “You know you don’t have to woo me to fuck me. We could just skip to the good stuff.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “No. We’re—we’re not doing that again. Not like that.”

“Oh really?” Tony said softly. He inched closer and Steve could feel the heat of his body. Tony looked up through his lashes and stroked his fingers lightly across Steve’s shoulder and down his arm, then stopped.

Steve shivered and realized abruptly he was hard in his pants. Tony’s body was so close they were almost touching all up and down, and Steve wanted it desperately, but feared that touch at the same time. (Not again, not again—you can’t. Not like last time.)

Tony leaned up to whisper, breath hot against Steve’s ear: “Is this what you thought of? This what you missed? A warm body, here to do with as you please? Did you think of it hard and brutal, against the wall? Want to pound my ass until I can’t sit for a week?”

It was too hot and the air felt thin. Tony’s words made Steve’s cock leak and throb, but they made his stomach twist miserably too. Steve closed his eyes.

Tony continued: “Did you think about the way I’d open up around you, sucking you in? Did you fuck your fist alone in the dark and remember that night?”

Steve shuddered. He hated the filth spilling from Tony’s lips, but he loved it too.

“Come on, Cap,” he said, “You need a hot wet hole for your dick—and I’m right here. So let’s go, stud. Show me what you got.”

(No.)

Very slowly, Steve leaned down until his lips almost touched Tony’s throat; he took a deep shuddering breath of Tony’s scent.

And then he couldn’t hold back—Steve fell on Tony, like he was a magnet drawing steel, sharp and inevitable. Steve pressed his face to Tony’s neck—not quite a kiss, not yet—as he folded Tony in his arms and held him tight. Tony’s body went stiff with surprise as Steve crushed them together.

Steve’s aching cock pressed against Tony’s stomach and Tony’s whole body was hot and solid against him as Steve held him tight. Steve breathed in deep, taking greedy lungfuls of Tony, who melted slowly in his arms, the tension leaving his muscles.

Steve ran his fingers softly through Tony’s hair. He kissed his neck and Tony shivered and rubbed his body against Steve’s in a filthy motion.

“Please, Tony,” Steve whispered and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Let me take you to dinner.”

Tony’s tumbler shattered on the floor in a thousand glittering pieces.

Tony jerked himself from Steve’s grasp, glass shards crunching under his shoes as he stepped away.

Steve stood frozen.

“Whatever sin it is you think you’re atoning for,” Tony said sharply, “I want no part in it.”

He spun and strode away, elevator opening for him unprompted.

“If you want to fuck,” Tony tossed out over his shoulder, “you know where to find me.”

Tony left Steve alone, standing in a circle of broken glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me! I really hope you liked this. If so, I'd love to hear from you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this series a chance! Kind words and encouragement are cherished and adored. Hope you liked it! Fingers crossed I can have the next chapters up soon...


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